


Nowhere to Be Except Here

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Bumbling About, Background Aveline/Isabela, Background Merrill/Orana, Dragon Age II Quest - All That Remains, Ensemble Cast, Friendship, Gen, Slice of Life, They/Them Hawke, background Fenris/Hawke, other relationships implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: The Amell Estate at 4am after someone has died is a liminal space. There’s nothing for Isabela to do but raid the larder.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Nowhere to Be Except Here

There was a wheel of soft white cheese in the larder, a block of paste made from puréed figs, and a bottle of coffee liqueur. Isabela was willing to consider this a successful raid and, balancing the treasure in her arms, climbed back out of the cellar.

She passed Gamlen on the way out, who simply shook his head at her and muttered something about pirate sluts. Given the circumstances, walking away without comment was about the kindest thing Isabela could do. With a little extra sway in the hips to remind Hawke’s creepy uncle of all the things he’d never have.

She passed Bodahn too, who looked at her arms and sighed.

“Mistress Amell was saving those for a special occasion.”

“Well, she’s hardly around to object.” Isabela raised an eyebrow in challenge. “And I’d say that special occasion has arrived, wouldn’t you?”

Bodahn just sighed again. “I’m going to go check on Sandal again. Poor boy will be having nightmares again.”

Isabela found the sitting room, where the others were waiting, and plopped down on the bench. She unwrapped the cheese and the fig paste, and cut them in small slices with the jewelled dagger she kept at her waist. Stacked them on top of each other and nibbled the sugar and salt together.

She unplugged the liqueur and took a long draught, before passing it clockwise to Anders. He was sitting at the head of a table, in a plush armchair that looked like it had been dragged from elsewhere. His legs were spread out at length, with the heels of his overlarge boots resting on the stone floor.

It really said something about the day they were having that, after a perfunctory look at the label, he took a few sips from the bottle before passing it to the next seat at the table.

“So this is what it takes to get the stick-in-the-mud to remove the stick-up-your-arse?” Isabela asked.

“You could not speak about him like that,” Anders said curtly, but then he relented. “Usually I have more important things to occupy my time and sobriety with,” he admitted. “But there’s no one to heal. Nothing to do except be here in case we’re needed. Might as well take the edge off.”

Fenris cursed from where he was pacing. He crossed before the fireplace once more, cold and empty and full of ashes, before he beelined for the side of the table where Anders had left the liqueur out for him. He took what Isabela thought was probably more than his fair share, before pounding the bottle back down where it was and resuming his pacing.

Orana frowned and, when Fenris was turned away, dashed for the bottle before returning to Merrill’s side and presenting it to her with a shy smile.

“Oh, you’re very sweet,” Merrill said, as she took a sip. “Would you like some, lethallan?”

“Oh, the Mistress Amell would never have let me,” she said smally.

Merrill considered this a long moment, before pressing a small kiss to Orana’s forehead and pressing the bottle into her hands. She gave an encouraging nod as Orana tasted it and scrunched her face at the bittersweet taste.

And then Merrill passed the bottle back to Isabela. “Aveline wouldn’t come then?” she asked, a little too rigidly.

“Not until she’s done with her report,” Isabela rolled her eyes, as she poured more liqueur over a mouthful of cheese. “Something tells me she feels guilty for not having investigated more thoroughly before… well… She’ll be a while at any rate.”

“And the love bites at your neck have nothing to do with it?” Anders huffed.

“I may have held her up a little,” Isabela admitted.

Cutting words had been exchanged. Aveline had slapped a gauntleted hand across her face. Isabela had pulled that red hair hard enough to bruise the scalp. And in the end they’d spent a very nice fraction of an hour on Aveline’s desk. It had been good enough that Isabela had completely forgotten what she came for. Damn brute of a woman.

“But you’ll heal me, won’t you, sweet thing?” Isabela cooed at Anders. Turning her red cheek and thoroughly ravished neck to the light, so he could see.

Anders snorted irritably and held out for a good minute of pleading before sending a wave of healing magic Isabela’s way.

“Much obliged,” Isabela preened. She cut a good quarter of the cheese wheel and tossed it so it hit Anders in the chest. “There’s your prize. Now be a good boy and eat it. If you get any more gaunt and skinny, there won’t be anything left of you for me to grope.”

Anders scowled, but bit dutifully into the hunk of cheese.

“And where’s Varric?” he asked around the mouthful.

“Do you think I know?” Isabela asked. “You didn’t really think he’d be here when it counted, did you?” Indeed, the most surprising part was that Isabela was. And with nothing to gain from the ordeal but some stolen delicacies from the cellar.

Anders grumbled, but said nothing.

“I still can’t believe Mistress Amell is dead,” Orana said in a shaky voice, hands clutched to her chest.

Merrill placed a calming hand on her shoulder and whispered.

Fenris cursed and kept pacing.

There was nothing else to say. Nothing else to say to the all too obvious truth in the room.

Isabela reached for the pouch at her belt. “Anyone up for a game of Wicked Grace?” she asked, as she pulled the deck of cards.

“Oh, yes, let’s!” Merrill agreed. She bounced down from where she was leaning against the wall to sit at the bench, dragging Orana beside her.

“Is this really the time?!” Fenris snarled, still pacing the room.

“When is there a better time?” Isabela shrugged.

“Nothing else for us to be doing,” Anders agreed, before shooting a glare at Fenris. “With the obvious exception.”

Fenris cursed. He kept pacing, and did not sit as Isabela dealt cards to the other three.

For a moment it was quiet but for the shuffle of cards. The nibbling sound as they made their way through the cheese and fig paste like mice. Then-

“The cards are so pretty,” Orana whispered, passing a card over to Merrill.

“They are aren’t they?” Merrill agreed. She held the card up to the light, such that Isabela could make out the shape of the Angel of Truth in her blue and gold robes on the other side.

Anders huffed. “You’re just going to let them cheat?” he asked Isabela quietly, indicating where Merrill and Orana were openly sharing their hands with one another.

“Do you have the heart to stop them?” Isabela asked. “I’ll tell you what – you can go cheat with them, and then maybe I’ll get something of a challenge.”

Anders grumbled something about truth and righteousness and smiting. And Isabela was about to say something about how she had something Justice could see smote, when Merrill said-

“Why don’t we all take turns to say something true about Leandra?” she held up the Angel and smiled encouragingly. “I can start. She was-” Merrill wrinkled her nose. “She had very pretty hair. I hope mine greys half so well.”

“She was a kind mistress,” Orana continued. “The nicest I’ve had.”

There was a pause for a moment, until Fenris cleared his throat. “Lady Leandra was… noble,” he offered. Which had the benefit of being true in the sense of her being nobility, regardless of whether it accurately encapsulated her character.

Anders got straight to the point. “She was unwelcoming.”

Isabela snorted. “What she was – was a right bitch.”

Merrill gasped. “Isabela!” she scolded.

“What?” Isabela huffed. “You all can pretend if you like. But she’s not here. And I’m certainly not here for her. I’m here for Hawke.”

“For Hawke,” Anders agreed.

“And Orana,” Merrill said.

“And Orana,” Isabela repeated, lifting up the bottle of liqueur. “To Orana – our dear friend and the only person in this pustule of a city who can make a decent meal.”

They passed the bottle around in Orana’s honour. Merrill drank the most deeply. And Orana blushed and insisted they were flattering her.

They played a few more hands of Wicked Grace, during which Isabela had wheedled favours if not money from the other players at the table. Fenris was the only one who might have stood a chance at beating her, but he still refused to play – pacing about the room and muttering darkly anytime it seemed the others were having too much fun.

The tension seemed to rise silently until finally, after one of his periodic sneers, Anders folded his hand of cards on the table.

“Maker’s Blighted Breath! Will you stop pacing and go to Hawke already?!”

“What for?!” Fenris snarled at him.

“You know exactly what for, you blighted elf!” Anders said.

“Do I?” Fenris demanded, stride longer and quicker as he worked himself up. “I left them. I have nothing to say. I have nothing to offer. There is nothing of myself to give.”

“Oh, yes, poor you,” Anders sneered. “If anyone’s the right to a pity party today, it’s you.”

“I have nothing to say!” Fenris snapped. “I don’t know anything about having a mother! What am I to tell Hawke?! What am I supposed to say?!” he pleaded.

Anders inhaled deeply, and his eyes filled with something between envy and pain and compassion. “Blighted fool. It doesn’t matter what you _say_. There’s nothing you _can_ say to make it better. All that matters is that you’re _there_!”

“You go to Hawke then!” Fenris snarled. “If you have so many opinions about it!”

“ _I_ am not the one that Hawke wants to see!” Anders bellowed.

The deafening boom cleared the way for the silence left in its wake. Filled only with Merrill munching happily on the cheese.

Fenris drew himself up to his full height, almost regally. “I won’t forget this, mage,” he said, before sweeping from the room, climbing the stairs two at a time and disappearing out of sight.

Anders huffed. “Was that a promise or a threat?” he asked the others.

It was impossible to tell with Fenris, but-

“Oooh, sweet thing. That was very difficult for you, wasn’t it?” Isabela cooed.

“Please,” Anders buried his head in his hands and slumped further in his seat.

“But you did good, didn’t you?” Isabela encouraged. “Very good and noble of you to look out for them both? I think you deserve a reward.” She slunk out of her seat.

“‘Bela…” Anders warned.

“Kitten, won’t you help me reward Anders for being such a dear?”

“Oh, sure!” Merrill sprang from her seat. “What are we doing then?”

“Do what I’m doing. Just on the opposite side,” Isabela instructed, as she swung up to sit on the armrest of Ander’s chair. He peeked at her through his fingers, as she flopped her legs across his lap.

When Merrill had safely taken her spot as his other side, she reached to pry his hand from his face and press a loud wet kiss to his right cheek. She registered Merrill, pressing a kiss to Anders’s left cheek, just a beat behind her, with an exaggerated ‘Mwah!’.

“Oh my Maker. ‘Bela, stop,” Anders whined, as he flailed lazily and pressed Isabela off the armrest. She collapsed to the floor with a cackling laugh.

Orana was hovering jealously at Merrill’s elbow. And Merrill, who had been spared the trip to the floor, swivelled around on the armrest.

“Oh, don’t be worried,” she said, before pressing a softer kiss to Orana’s cheek.

She leaned back into Anders, pulling Orana with her. And then toppled back into the armchair with a giggle when Anders stood up suddenly.

“I’m going to go… Library,” he said succinctly, before departing from the room.

Isabela stood and lifted her leg to brace it against the armrest. “And we have successfully liberated the plushest chair from the men!” she announced.

“Oh, is that what we were doing?” Merrill giggled.

“There are more like it in the study,” Orana offered a little breathlessly.

“Don’t make light of our victory,” Isabela scolded, as she sat back on the armrest, with Merrill and Orana sharing the seat. “What shall we do now?”

“Well, I can tell a story, if you like?” Merrill offered. “That’s how we always passed time in the clan during the long nights. I can tell you about Falon’Din, the Merciful One, and how he first came to carry the People across the Veil.”

“That sounds lovely, Kitten,” Isabela encouraged.

Merrill launched into the story, which had something to do with brothers and a doe and the marks on her pretty face. And halfway through it Anders came back with an inkwell, paper, and quill. He glanced at the three of them sprawled across the armchair, and took a seat at the bench.

Merrill’s voice was a soft lull. _And ever after, the twins swore never again to be parted, and they accompanied the People across the Veil – death and knowledge hand-in-hand – to the slumbers that would relieve them the burdens of their immortality._

Orana watched her rapt, as she talked. And Isabela was beginning to feel like she was intruding, and slid off the armrest to take a seat next to Anders on the bench.

Anders glanced up at her, and then back down to the paper he was blotting.

“When she talks about twins, I think of Beth and Carver.”

“They were quite a pair, weren’t they?” Isabela asked. “Such darlings,” she sighed.

“I suppose Varric did his time being there for Hawke in the Deep Roads,” Anders allowed. “I can imagine it – just the two of them in those forsaken tunnels as the blight sickness spread over the corpses…

“Wardens can’t die that way,” Anders continued. “But I suppose it’s close enough to how I would have gone, if I’d stayed.”

“Yes, much better that you’re here with us,” Isabela cooed, “instead of off getting yourself killed for something stupid.”

Anders gave a wry half smile. “Some things are worse than death.”

Isabela considered that all her friends were insufferable and terribly morbid. She glanced down at the paper, where he’d written a couple of sprawling lines in Ander.

“You’re not working on that manifesto again are you?”

“I wish,” Anders chuckled. “Would be less a waste of my time. But I doubt I could focus on it tonight… No, this is just- A letter? Poetry? A song? I guess I’m thinking of my own siblings.”

“Apostate Mage gives up inflammatory political rhetoric and breaks into equally dull and alienating high literature,” Isabela groaned. “And yet it’s not the worst way your story could end. You’d be happier probably.” She leaned against him, wrapped her leg around his so their ankles entwined.

Anders frowned, but let her leg be. He scrawled another line. “I am happy,” he said quietly. “It may not seem like it to you. But I am happy when I don’t have to pretend I don’t care. I am happy when I can work on the things I believe matter.”

Isabela sighed, but let it go. Anders always had been more stubborn than was good for anyone. She reached across the table and cut more cheese and fig paste for the both of them. Anders accepted it with a quiet word of thanks.

After a long moment, Anders laughed. “You know, I ran into Gamlen when I was in the library. You know… I think he came onto me?”

“Oh, you’re kidding!” Isabela cackled.

“No, no- I’m completely serious!” Anders insisted. “And I would have thought he’d mistaken me for someone else, but he started with a bunch of drunken slurs about crazy mages so-”

“That is absolutely disgusting,” Isabela said with barely contained glee.

Anders was telling her about where all the grotesque details, when there was a knock on the door.

Orana seemed to fidget nervously in her seat next to Merrill, and Merrill took the hint.

“We’ll go see who it is,” she announced, dragging Orana behind her.

Isabela quickly got up and plopped herself into the armchair, before Anders could get any bright ideas about taking it back.

Merrill and Orana returned a moment later, followed by Aveline. And Varric and Sebastian behind her.

“Big Girl!” Isabela perked up. “That was quick. You decided to join us after all.”

Aveline sighed. “Well, what can I say?” she grumbled. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

When Isabela blew her a kiss, Aveline flushed and grumbled.

Sebastian was drawing Orana into a hushed conversation, as Varric gave a half smile and a wave. “Rivaini. Blondie,” he acknowledged. “How’s Hawke holding up?”

“Sorry I’m late,” Aveline continued to announce. “I was just gathering these two.” She nodded her head irritably at the other newcomers.

“Nonsense,” a voice called from the stair. “You are exactly on time, Aveline. And you can ask Hawke yourself, Varric.”

Isabela turned her head up, to where Fenris was descending the stairs, leading Hawke down by the hand.

Everyone made a poor attempt to stand a little straighter and plaster on a more neutral set of expressions. Isabela scrambled to collect the cards and cheese and other trifles spilled over the bench and table, to no avail.

“Hawke,” Anders said, with that all too transparent look of affection and awe. “You’re here.” He stood.

Hawke took a deep breath and plastered on a pitiful half smile. “I’m here,” they agreed, leaning a little into Fenris for support. “Fenris convinced me to come downstairs, to see how many people were here for me.”

“Fenris said that?” Anders asked.

“Fenris said it,” Hawke agreed.

Fenris’s ears twitched self consciously and he glared at everyone, mostly Anders.

“I see…” Anders said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t. He shuffled awkwardly on his feet. Lifted, dropped, lifted his arms. “Can I…?”

Hawke laughed and practically fell into Anders’s chest to let himself be hugged. Fenris was still holding their hand, and continued to glare at anyone whose eyes he managed to meet, but otherwise refrained from any jealous outbursts.

“And Orana!” Hawke announced, as they finally pressed themself back from where they were leaning into Anders. They dragged Fenris behind as they went to Orana’s side. “This must be difficult for you, Orana. But whatever happens, you’ll always have a place here.”

“Oh,” Orana said. “Well, thank you.” She squeaked, as Hawke let go of Fenris to pull her into a hug, and then Merrill after her.

And then everyone was scrambling to offer Hawke sympathies and condolences. Prayers from Sebastian. A punch on the arm from Aveline. Isabela waited as Hawke circled around to her.

She took a deep breath. _This is what she was here for._

“Hawke,” she said, looking up at him from where she was slouched in the armchair.

“Isabela,” they returned.

Isabela sighed and pressed herself up to her feet. It had to be different than the hugs she gave to flings and lovers. Just the lightest press of her hand against Hawke’s shoulder.

She thought about all the things she could say. Isabela had lost a mother too once. Not to death, but something just as final in a way. _Even if she was a right bitch, she loved you._ _At least your mother loved you_ , she thought. But would Hawke even want to hear that? Could Isabela even say it in front of so many people?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into Hawke’s ear.

“I know,” they said.

She turned them down into the armchair, and took the seat on the armrest. Anders immediately filed in on the other side and started fussing. And Fenris, strangely, seemed to allow this. He took the nearest seat on the bench and, for the first time that night, seemed to relax.

Once he was seated, the others filed in to fill the gaps.

“Are you doing alright, sweet thing?” Isabela said, running a hand idly through Hawke’s dark hair.

“No, not really,” Hawke said.

_Well, fair enough._

“Would you like something to eat? _”_ Anders asked. “We have… cheese and figs.” He looked at the mess on the table, scraps of paper and wax rind and a spilled inkwell, and scrunched his nose. None of it looked the least bit appealing any more.

“Maybe something to drink?” Isabela offered. She reached for the bottle of coffee liqueur. Frowned. Tilted it to look inside.

_Well… it was empty. When had that happened?_

“A hand of Wicked Grace?” she tried.

“I could tell another story?” Merrill offered.

“Ah, yes? No?” Hawke said unsurely. Though they accepted the slice of cheese and fruit that Anders handed them. “I don’t know.” They sighed. “I wanted to sleep, but that just doesn’t seem to be happening.”

“It’s alright,” Isabela said. “We’ll be here until you decide.”

Hawke gave a tired smile. “Will you?” they asked.

“Absolutely,” Aveline said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Don’t let any of them rush you. No one tells you how to mourn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hawke chuckled.

Fenris scoffed, and slouched against the table.

“That’s all I have,” Aveline sighed. She removed her gauntlets and gathered Isabela’s cards in her palm. “I’ll miss her too.”

And they waited – whispers, nibbles, prayers, and the scratch of quill on paper – until Hawke nodded at Aveline and Merrill in turn. And they played Wicked Grace to the sound of Merrill’s stories like lullabies, until Hawke drifted to sleep in the armchair.


End file.
